The Math
by Cascade Waters
Summary: Sometimes Spike needs a little help to see the whole equation. WARNING: Contains non-sexual spanking. Don't like don't read.


_For supergirl3684_

They'll tell you that being a cop isn't like the shows on TV, that most cops never pull their weapons in the line and that most of the job is paperwork.

And they're mostly right. That's a pretty good description of the life of most cops.

But my team, we're not most cops. Their job is to keep the peace, to stop trouble before it happens. Our job is to wade into the trouble that's already happening and try to broker peace, hopefully in the least lethal way possible—for everyone involved. Sometimes, that's possible. And sometimes, it's just not; there are days when people make bad choices that leave us without good ones, and those nights, we pretend to wash off the day, but the whole team knows that it's just a sham. And then there are the days when we have the chance to make choices that just might give us an edge. There are no guarantees, and sometimes those choices… well, sometimes they aren't exactly cool with the rest of the team. Well, with the team leaders, anyway. Sometimes a guy just has to do something that doesn't strictly agree with orders. Even direct orders. Direct orders given loudly… and repeatedly.

And that's why I'm still sitting here at the conference table, working on long-handing my reports and the whole incident log (all eleven pages of it,) long after the rest of the team has finished, showered, and gone for a bite and a drink. Well, most of the rest of the team. The barn is all but deserted, Teams 2 and 4 are outside on drills, the night switch is going over the day logs and waiting for the first call, and I'm sitting here at the table while Ed Lane, our field lead, does lat pulls in the gym across the hall. I know that he's biding his time, waiting for me to finish… waiting for me to be ready to deal with the consequences of my choices. If things had ended really badly today, if one of us had gotten hurt or the subject hadn't made it out because of my actions, I wouldn't be in this kind of trouble; Eddie's not cruel. But since everyone is okay, I'm gonna have to account for myself, on his terms. He's not cruel, but he has… ideas about this kind of thing. And his ideas never end well for my, um, end. Can a guy really be ready for that?

Ah, well. I've been here before, not often, just three times in the last six years, but I know that stalling won't save me. Ed's a patient guy, but he won't wait forever, and the longer I put it off, the more this'll all inhale; so I guess it's time to face the music.

I can see that he's a little bit surprised when he looks up to see me standing in the doorway of the gym—I could have just texted him—but I can also see that he's kind of, I don't know, pleased, or maybe proud, and that means a lot to me just now. See, here's the thing about me—I do what I think I need to do in the moment, and sometimes that means that what I do doesn't really agree with what I'm told, and I stand by most of my choices, but I do get that there's more to it than that. I get that what I choose to do (or not do) doesn't just affect me. If I didn't understand that, I wouldn't do this job. I'd be, I don't know, a fireworks engineer or something. I do this to help people, to maybe save some lives and property; I'm on this team because I know what I'm doing. Sometimes I can see things that Eddie and the Sarge can't, and sometimes I have to act on what I see. But they know what they're doing, too. None of us is perfect, but we're a team, and we have to be able to count on each other to know our jobs—and to listen to each other. We just have different definitions of 'listening.' Would I do again what I did today? An hour ago, I'd have said yes. Now I'm not quite so sure—a lot of my job, with bombs and with computer work, is math, and tonight the numbers look different.

Eddie tells me that it's time both of us clean up, and that I have ten minutes to be showered and dressed and back in the conference room. When I'm in the shower, I'm distracted, thinking through what happened today and what's about to happen, what I'm going to say and what I maybe shouldn't, so I don't hear the other shower turn off; I'm a little bit startled to see Eddie lounging in a chair in the conference room, his trainers crossed and resting on the edge of the table as he reads through the handwritten reports I'd left in a file folder. He glances up when I walk in, and casually orders me to close the door and plant my nose in the corner nearest him. I want to argue about the corner because that seems ridiculous, but as soon as I open my mouth, he raises one eyebrow and his eyes go kind of thundery, and my eyes widen and I turn myself around and obey. Ed actually thanks me and tells me that I've made a good choice, which makes me feel all of five years old.

I stand there in the corner for so long that I think that Eddie must be memorizing everything I wrote. Or at least it seems that way—according to the clock on the wall, it's only been fifteen minutes when he calls me back to him. I go to stand in front of him, a few feet out of reach but close enough that he doesn't say anything about it. When he starts to talk, it's a calm recounting of the day's events, focusing on my part in them; he says that he wants to make sure that we're on the same page, and he even chuckles when I ask which of the bazillion pages that would be. I relax a little then; oh, I know I'm not getting away clean, but it's a lot easier for me to deal with stuff like this when things are calm and… not ticking.

He has me walk him through all of my choices, the reasons, and the math, and he tells me that he's listening if I can give him a reason why I shouldn't be in trouble. I can't, we both know it, and I just don't feel like wasting time trying. I know how strongly I felt at the time that I was doing something I had to do, but now that I've had to look at the whole incident log, I can see what they saw that I didn't at the time, I can see the math they did, and I understand why ignoring their orders this time was not the best way to go. I'd never be punished for doing my job to the best of my ability, but the fact is that today, I didn't—they told me what they knew, but I let pride and overconfidence take over my judgment, and while I was the only person in immediate danger from the IED I was disarming, I could have left the team explaining property damage and short one boom guy, at least while I recovered. I refuse to believe that it could have been any worse than that. I'm realistic to a point, but let's not get morbid here.

When I try to remind him about that part, though, Eddie doesn't really appreciate the nuances, and he gets a little growly, which is never a good sign. Then again, I've never yet won this debate.

Soon enough, I'm bent over the end of the conference table with my poor bare tush in the air. I've been cooperative about the whole thing, so that's probably won me some leniency, somehow, but since (as Ed says) this isn't the first time we've had a discussion, either about me not following orders or about acceptable risk, I gasp and hiss when I realize that that's one of our new ping-pong paddles crashing into my butt. Those things are basically thin layers of hard wood with textured rubber facings. I really try not to make any noise, but it's too much effort, especially with someone who knows me so well and doesn't care that I vocalize (hey, at least I don't scream. Now that would be mortifying.) Most of the smacks come two to a spot, and even as I reflexively put a hand back (hey, I'm a bomb guy, not Officer Sam Stoic,) I know for a fact that it could be worse. When Eddie doesn't smack my hand, but just pins it to my back, I realize what he's doing… or, more accurately, what he's not doing.

It's really not a very long paddling, and it's definitely not the worst I've ever gotten, from either my pop or Ed, but it's not the lightest, either. I'm still a little surprised that I'm with it enough to recognize when the paddling is over. I hear the clatter when Ed puts the paddle on the table, and I can feel him start to rub up and down my spine. When I've got my breathing under control, I try to use the cuff of my free sleeve to dry the tears off of the table (we have established that I'm not Sam, right?) Eddie pats me on the back and reminds me that the custodians will probably think that someone spilled some water, and he encourages me to stand up. I kind of hiss when I do stand and pull up my pants (I'm not even gonna bother with retucking my shirt;) I've just gotten a patented Ed Lane Afterburner—it's this thing he does when he wants to make a memorable impact without risking one of us being distracted on a call. He goes for maximum sting right away, but doesn't leave his victim overly sore later. And let me tell ya, I don't know where or how he learned, but he's really, really good at it. I got an Afterburner the first couple of times, too; it's hard to take at the time, but it's a kindness compared to the Ed Lane Overload. You get to that point, you'd better stock up on ice packs and a few days' worth of food you can eat standing up or laying down.

I'm normally a pretty happy guy, because that's who my folks raised me to be, but when I feel something, I have a hard time not showing it. I've had to work on that for this job, for the few times that I've done the negotiating, so I've gotten okay at hiding anger and fear, and I don't go around crying all the time, but I'm just not the guy who can flip a switch and turn off the tears. So I'm still using my sleeve, this time on my face, when Eddie kind of chuckles, and then he turns me and pulls me into his arms. It's weird, maybe, that for all his bluster, Ed's more huggy than the Sarge, but there ya go. He doesn't hold on for long, but it's still nice. I don't know, maybe I'm the only one he hugs; sometimes it's a little embarrassing to be the most touchy-feely guy on the team, but right now, it's a little bit nice that Eddie knows that about me and doesn't hold it against me.

We talk a little more, just to make sure that we're okay and that our math matches now, and then he kneads my shoulder and asks if I'm up for dinner with the team or if he should just take me home. I think about it for a minute, and he tells me that it's my decision and he'll respect my choice but that I need to eat either way, so I decide to meet the others, and he smiles. We grab our jackets and walk the six blocks to the bar and grill the team favors; Eddie and I don't need to talk on the walk over, which is good because I'm always sort of quiet right after a punishment, but he does squeeze my shoulder before we go into the restaurant.

The rest of the team welcomes us pretty much as if we're just lollygaggers, teasing me about stalling on paperwork and Eddie about typing with two fingers. I'm sure that at least one person knows what just happened, but he just gives me an unreadable look (he might be a little bit mad at me over what I did today, it's hard to tell) and sends a mug of beer sliding my way. Eddie intercepts it—his rule is that if he's gone to all that trouble to set your butt on fire, you're not gonna drink your way out of the sting. Leah offers us the stools next to hers, but I don't feel like sitting just yet, and Eddie puts a hand on my back while he starts some random conversation about Jules and tattoos so that no one really notices.

Yep. This team has a lot of parts, which add up to a pretty awesome whole. I can live with that math.


End file.
